


The Edge Of The World

by anyamorozova



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Divergence - Post-Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, Complicated Plot, F/M, Folklore, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Magical Realism, Magical Theory, Manipulative Albus Dumbledore, Mentor Severus Snape
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-18
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-10-11 13:36:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17447981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anyamorozova/pseuds/anyamorozova
Summary: After a disastrous summer at the Dursleys leaves the blood wards broken, Harry, along with a newly-recruited Draco Malfoy, is forced to accompany Snape on an Order mission to a remote location. Trapped at the edge of the world with nothing but each other's company, the enemies are forced to learn that the others may be more than just their pasts, and that Dumbledore's righteous "war plans" are not exactly as they seem...Sporadic updates, but still in progress!





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Tags will be updated as the story goes on. There is also potential for Draco/OFC, but I haven't decided yet. Abuse by the Dursleys is implied and mentioned several times, but not done in-depth.

****Petunia Dursley, in the grand scheme of things, considered herself quite a patient person. She could sit by the open kitchen window for hours, ears strained as she listened to the neighbors talk, waiting for the juiciest piece of gossip. And she had always been more than patient with Dudley– one of her many accomplishments as a mother, she thought proudly, was that she had never, not once, snapped and shouted at her son. No, she’d waited out his temper tantrums with a stony expression, waited for him to stop complaining in silence. Even as a child, she was so very patient. She’d outlasted Lily every time one of their fights resulted in the silent treatment, down to the very last one, on the evening her sister told her she was planning on marrying that strange fool of a man. She’d waited for her sister to come to her senses in vain. She’d waited seven years for a letter that never came.

Hell, she’d even been patient with the boy. All of those times that strangeness inside of him reared its ugly head– his unruly hair that refused to be cut, the shrinking sweaters, the cobra at the zoo– she’d never done more than send him to his cupboard. Never raised a hand when she’d been itching to so desperately. Never truly given him a piece of her mind, unlike Vernon.

But now, after fifteen years, her patience was finally wearing thin. This had gone on long enough.

“BOY!” she shouted up the stairs, immediately followed by a dull thud and a crash as something shattered in the boy’s– no, Dudley’s second– bedroom. Petunia pinched the bridge of her nose and let out a long breath. That horrible boy was always making some sort of mess.  A moment passed, and then head of scruffy, unkempt black hair appeared in the hallway.

“Get down here at once.” she snapped, “And clean up whatever mess you’ve made before you do. I don’t need your freakishness dirtying up any more of my house.”

The boy was silent, merely looking at her somewhat blankly before retreating back to his room and slamming the door. A flash of resentment shot through Petunia; he’d been like this all summer. Quiet, despondent, locking himself in that tiny little room and only emerging to use the bathroom and get food several times per day. He was turning into some sort of recluse– he was barely even a human being anymore, Petunia thought with disgust. Not that _freaks_ were fully human like the rest of them, anyways.

But even subhuman creatures had to do their share of work and pay their way. She wasn’t in the business of offering charity to _their kind_ , and the boy’s so-called “sadness” had gone on long enough. It was high time for him to show some respect where it was due and get back to work. She certainly wasn’t going to put up with him lazing around all summer like some spoiled little prince.

She was in the kitchen several minutes later when she heard his quick footsteps come down the stairs, and then into the room as he graced her with his presence. He looked worse for wear, she had to admit. His hair was unkempt and snarled, like he hadn’t brushed it in several days, and there were dark circles under his eyes, as though he hadn’t slept in just as long– probably some sort of glamour magic to make them pity him. But then, she reflected, she had heard him cry out in the night from time to time, as though possessed by some kind of horrible… thing. Perhaps it wasn’t a spell. Perhaps he truly wasn’t sleeping.

No, she decided a moment later, it was most likely all done for attention. Her lip curled as her gaze swept over his skinny frame and landed on his hands, finding them littered with fresh scrapes. A few beads of blood were beginning to pool on his skin. It must have been some sort of strange… thing his kind did. Or some demented form of self-harm. Either way, she wanted nothing to do with it.  “Clean yourself up,” she barked, throwing a kitchen towel towards him before turning away. “I don’t want your freakish blood on my floor.”

“Yes, Aunt Petunia,” he said dully, dutifully going to the sink and turning on the water.

“And when you’re done with that,” she continued, “You’ll be going out to weed the gardens, and then have dinner made by six. It’s time you started earning your keep again, Potter.”

The sound of running water was abruptly cut off as he finished and turned around to face her. “I’ve tried to stay out of your way.” he said, his lips pressed together in a hard, thin line.

“Yes, well, out of the way doesn’t keep the house running, does it?” She snapped, crossing her arms over her chest. “You should consider yourself lucky that I open my home to you year after year, especially after all the hardships you’ve brought upon our family. All we ever wanted was to be _normal_ , but instead we were stuck with _you._ ” She spat the last word as though it were poison on her tongue, and watched as the resignation on his face slowly began to fade into something more ardent– anger.

“You think I want to be here?” He demanded, his grip around the kitchen towel tightening as his temper flared. “You think I choose to come back here every summer? I don’t want to be here any more than any of you want me here.”

Petunia grit her teeth. That ungrateful little brat! Dumbledore may have asked them to offer him shelter until he was seventeen, but no one was forcing her to do _anything_. All of this, the past fifteen years, was done of her own honorable volition. She’d willingly given up space in her home, food, clothes, part of Dudley’s childhood, and even some of their hard-earned money– and he repaid her with laziness and resentment? How _dare_ he!

“Enough!” She snarled. “You little freak, you should be grateful we’ve even provided you with meals while you locked yourself in Dudley’s second room, pretending to be depressed. I should give you what you deserve and throw you out on the street! But, no, I wouldn’t, because you need our _protection._ ” She didn’t bother to hide the disgust on her face. “This ends _now._ ”

It was after this sentence that she saw the fire in his eyes start to blaze, and the temperature in the room seemed to drop twenty degrees. She forced herself to quell the fear that had begun to roil in her stomach. _Don’t think about the snake, don’t think about Marge, don’t think about the dementors._

“Pretending?” Potter spat the words through his teeth. “ _Pretending?_ I knew the lot of you were dense, but I thought you, at least, would understand.” And there was a touch of vulnerability in his voice that for a moment made Petunia feel concerned.

But then the towel tore in half in his hand, seemingly of its own accord, and she steeled herself over again. Her blood was boiling in her veins. “I have no business in understanding anything about the life of a freak.” she said sharply.

“Yeah, well, grief wasn’t freakish when it was for your own sister, was it?”

Every part of Petunia’s body suddenly went cold. “Don’t you dare,” she warned, but the fight was slowly slipping from her voice.

“I’ve had to watch people die right in front of me.” The boy growled, rage creeping into his voice. Petunia reached for something, anything, to protect herself with– if he attacked her with his freakish powers, she was defenseless. Vernon was at work, Dudley was out with friends. “Everyone I’ve ever loved has been taken. My godfather, my parents– how you felt after my mum died, remember that? Not such a great feeling, yeah?” as he spoke, a high-pitched whine started to fill the room. Hairline cracks began to creep across the glass of the picture frames hung against the walls. “Think of that, but imagine you had to look her in the eyes right as she died.”

Anger shot through Petunia, making every muscle in her thin frame tense. The rolling pin she’d grabbed from the counter was heavy in her hand. “ _Don’t you talk about her!”_ she shrieked, her voice shrill enough that the boy cringed.

“I will,” he shot back, the cracks in the glass growing longer and wider. “I will, because you didn’t just lose a sister, I lost my mum, and now I’ve lost my godfather, too–”

“You didn’t lose her.” she said angrily. “My sister got herself _killed._  And whatever your kind like to say about her death being a sacrifice– well, she would still be here if it wasn’t for _you._ And I’m sure your brutish godfather would be, too.”

The adrenaline of finally letting loose the words she’d wanted to say for so long made all of her restraint snap. The high pitched whining grew steadily louder, and so did the fire in his eyes, but she continued, because she had no more patience left to give and the boy deserved every word. “Your mother died _because of you,_  and every misfortune that has entered our lives since then has been because of you. Your kind. She got herself blown up saving your sorry self, and you don’t deserve to even speak of her, you worthless little _freak–_ ”

The whining came to an ominous, sudden stop. The shaking glass on the pictures stilled. For a moment, Petunia wondered if she’d verbally beaten into submission.

But then the kitchen window exploded.

Petunia screamed, arms flying up to cover her face as the force of the explosion, strong as a bomb, threw her back. Her feet fell out from under her as glass and plaster rained down upon her.

When the dust cleared, Potter was standing in the doorway, breathing heavily, his entire body trembling.

“Get. Out.” She choked out, her voice quiet with barely contained rage. For a moment, he just stood there, and Petunia hurled the rolling pin at him, narrowly missing his head. “GET OUT. Get out of my house, you disgusting, horrible _freak!”_

Before she could throw something else at him, the boy stormed out, throwing the front door open so hard the walls trembled as he ran out into the street. _Good riddance,_ she thought as she brushed the dust off of her and shakily rose to her feet. _Good riddance that he’s gone. Good riddance if he never comes back. It’s not like I give a damn if he gets himself blown up like his parents, not after what he’s done to my family!_

But despite the fury now raging in her veins and the fact that her once-pristine kitchen was now in shambles, Petunia felt… surprisingly light. As she looked around at the damage around her, a strange weight seemed to lift from her shoulders for the first time in sixteen long years.

–––

Miles away, a wild burst of magic burned through the veins of one Severus Snape, along with each of the other Death Eaters seated at the long, ornate dining table of Malfoy Manor. The enchantment  shook the very core of his magic, pulsing at the center of the Dark Mark, even reaching away from him and rocking the protective wards surrounding the house. A web of spells began to shimmer at the Manor’s walls, rippling precariously, green and silver with a hint of red. The room, previously hectic with the heated conversations and arguments of the Death Eaters, was suddenly eerily quiet.

As quickly as the strange magic had appeared, it suddenly vanished. The house righted itself and the burning– not dissimilar to the angry call of the Dark Lord that flared through his Mark– began to dissipate, leaving nothing but a stunned silence in its wake. Severus was careful to keep his own features guarded, unlike his compatriots– Bellatrix Lestrange looked absolutely floored, while the young Malfoy heir looked ill.

“Well,” the Dark Lord purred, idly stroking Nagini from the head of the table, “This is quite an interesting turn of events.”

“My Lord,” Bellatrix gasped out, black eyes wide with undiluted fear, “What does it mean? Are you being attacked?”

Snape forced back a snort and fought to keep the surface of his mind carefully blank. Underneath the delicate mask his Occlumency provided, however, his thoughts were running at breakneck speed. He knew what this meant. Knew the repercussions it would bring.

An unnatural smile began to creep up the Dark Lord’s pale, snakelike features. Oh yes, this was going to be fun for him indeed– and a horrible mess for Severus to clean up if he didn’t play this correctly. Nagini, sensing the excitement of her master, began to slither across black wood of the table. Across from him, Draco looked as though he were about to be sick. Severus cursed the boy and his nerves.

“It means,” Voldemort said with a dark chuckle, “that our time has come. It means that the wards around Harry Potter have broken at last.”


	2. Broken

Several days later, Harry Potter sat on the edge of the old, ratty bed in Dudley’s second bedroom, staring intently at the jagged shard of glass lying in the palm of his hand. He knew, had known for weeks now, that nothing would stare back at him from the other side save for his own reflection. But he couldn’t help but watch and hope, searching for the swish of Sirius long black hair, or a trace of his familiar smile.

The pathetic shard was all he had left of Sirius– the rest of the mirror having been shattered when Aunt Petunia screamed at him the other day, startling him out of his grief induced trance– and it was the only remnant of Harry Potter left in the little bedroom. The rest of his belongings were packed away in his trunk, which sat at the foot of his bed, an empty owl cage resting on top. He’d already sent Hedwig to the Weasleys in preparation for his journey. Finally, after possibly the worst few weeks of his life, he would be leaving the Dursleys.

He’d been planning for it to happen days earlier, when he’d accidentally made the kitchen window explode and Aunt Petunia had screeched for him to _get out_ . But halfway down Magnolia Crescent, he’d realized he had nothing with him but his wand, and a tiny piece of parchment that had popped into existence before him not a moment later– a note from Dumbledore, telling him to go back to the Dursleys and _stay there_ no matter what, and that he would come to collect Harry himself in several days. A rush of anger had gone through him at that. Why did he have to go back when neither party wanted him there in the first place?

But the more he’d thought about it, the more it made sense. It was stupid to wander, defenseless, when Voldemort was back and actively hunting him down, no matter how much he hated the Dursleys. So he’d returned, despite knowing all that awaited him was punishment, and the strange feeling of vulnerability that washed over him as he’d stepped over the threshold of Number Four, Privet Drive.

Aunt Petunia had been furious, only letting him back in the house after reading Dumbledore’s note and the assurance that it was only for a few days. Uncle Vernon, however, was more inclined to throw him out onto the streets no matter what _that old coot_ said– and he only relented after a session with the belt and locking Harry in his room with the promise of no meals. Dudley, somehow, was miraculously unaware of the whole incident.

And so for the past two days, Harry had been stuck in his room, nursing numerous welts on his back and packing his belongings in anticipation of Dumbledore’s arrival. He managed to stave off hunger with the stash of food his friends had sent him, hidden under the loose floorboard and then in a compartment of his trunk. The explosion of the kitchen window was blamed on a gas leak, and a letter from the Ministry never came, despite Harry’s blatant– yet accidental– use of magic. All in all, life at Number Four was back to normal. Well, as normal as it ever got.

The sound of a hard knock coming from downstairs yanked Harry out of his thoughts. Anticipation bubbled in his chest– it was Dumbledore, it had to be. At last, he’d be away from the Dursleys and back in the wizarding world. But then Aunt Petunia let out a bloodcurdling shriek, and Harry froze. Could it be Death Eaters? Some sort of minion of Voldemort’s that had come to capture him? No, that wasn’t possible, not with the blood wards… shoving the remnant of Sirius’ mirror into his pocket, he crept towards the locked door, wand at the ready.

Squinting through the slit between the door and the wall, Harry could just barely see a figure in a dark, billowing cloak standing in the front entrance. A very dumbstruck Petunia was holding open the door. Harry thought his aunt’s jaw just might hit the floor.

“Y-you!” she finally sputtered, horror stretching her thin features taut across her bony face.

“Me.” the figure said silkily, stepping further into the house. “How nice to see you again, _Tuney._ ”

Aunt Petunia’s face began to pale. At the sound of the commotion, Uncle Vernon lumbered into the foyer, his oafish form blocking the guest from Harry’s limited view. “What’s going on, Pet?”

“What are _you_ doing here?” Aunt Petunia hissed. “Your kind… you’re _not welcome_ here.”

The visitor snorted, stepping further into the house. “I should be offended if I was.” he said, venom dripping from every word. Uncle Vernon seemed to bristle. Before he could say anything though, the visitor removed something from an inner pocket of his robes– a wand?– and Uncle Vernon fell silent. “As much as I would love to make a social call, I am here to collect the boy for Albus. _Quickly._ Unless you have objections?”

Petunia huffed. “Certainly not. Vernon, go get him, will you?”

His uncle shot a dark glare at the visitor before stomping up the stairs, his footsteps heavy. Harry scrambled back from the door just as Uncle Vernon began to unlock it, hastily shoving his wand away. He tried to put an innocent look on his face as the door flew open.

“Boy,” he growled, glancing from Harry to the trunk and back again, as if he was sure he was going to catch Harry doing some sort of black magic. “One of those freaks is here for you.”

Without needing to be told twice, Harry stalked past him and went down the stairs, hand tight around his wand in his pocket. He wasn’t quite sure _who_ was waiting for him downstairs, but it was always good to be prepared. Probably just an Order member, here to say Dumbledore was coming…

He stepped into the foyer on high alert, prepared for the worst, only to find none other than the greasy bat of the dungeons, Severus Snape, looming before him.

Shock hit him like a slap to the face. _What the hell?_ Well, he’d been half-right about the Death Eater part.

“You!” he shouted, whipping his wand out, a dozen hexes and jinxes already on the tip of his tongue. Anger burned through his veins. Why would _Snape_ of all people be here? Snape, who had ignored his pleas for help to save Sirius; Snape, who for all he knew could be a spy for Voldemort; Snape, who only thought of him as an extension of his father. But despite their horrible feud at the end of last year, the professor looked unabashed.

“Relax, Potter, I’m not here to harm you.” He said, his features twisting into a smirk. “But if you decide to hex me, you will sorely regret it. Dumbledore sent me. See for yourself.”

Harry opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, a piece of parchment floated over to him, filled with Dumbledore’s loopy handwriting. Uncle Vernon spluttered at the display of magic– “Now– now– _you see here_ –” but Petunia was hushing him, shooting anxious glances towards Snape.

The professor suddenly looked deeply irritated. “I don’t have time for your idiocy, Dursley,” he said darkly, and perhaps having had enough of them, he pointed his wand at the two Muggles and muttered, “ _Petrificus Totalus_.”

Harry’s mouth dropped open in shock as his relatives seemed to turn to stone before him. Not that Harry cared– they were better like this, he thought personally– but Snape’s already thin patience seemed even shorter than usual. Something had to be going on, and Harry hadn’t been told about it. His curiosity piqued, but wanting to avoid the same fate for himself, he looked away quickly and glanced towards the paper.

_My boy,_

_I extend my deepest apologies for being unable to collect you myself; I am afraid that a task with the old crowd has been keeping me far too busy these days. Thankfully, Severus offered to assist me and is more than happy to help you in your travels._

_I know that there is a history between the two of you, Harry, but you have nothing to fear from him. I myself would trust Severus with my life. I ask also that, for today, you trust him with yours, and that you proceed swiftly. He will take you to headquarters, where I will meet you shortly thereafter to discuss the matters at hand._

_Do not be surprised, and do not worry; all will be well. Travel safely._

_Yours,_

_Albus Dumbledore_

The moment Harry finished reading, the parchment burst into flames in his hands. Letting out a startled yelp, he let it fall, scattering ashes all over Aunt Petunia’s carpet. She moaned slightly through the curse.

Glaring at Snape, Harry nursed his burned fingers. “What the hell was that?” he demanded, not only referring to the fire. Confusion and a hint of irritation washed over him. It was last summer all over again, and he was being kept in the dark. Where was Dumbledore? What was the Order up to that Harry could not be told about? Was anyone in danger?

Snape rolled his eyes at the slight injury. “One of the headmaster’s own enchantments. For secrecy, no doubt.”

“Dumbledore told me he would come–”

Growing impatient, Snape clicked his tongue. “Can’t you _read,_ Potter? The headmaster is otherwise indisposed.” The tone in the Potions Master’s voice made a shiver roll down Harry’s spine. Was Dumbledore alright? Harry couldn’t shake the feeling that something was horribly wrong. That feeling of vulnerability, still hanging around him from several days before, prickled at the back of his neck.

“But I’m supposed to go to the Weasleys, why did he mention headqua–”

“Hush!” Snape interrupted him, grabbing him by the wrist. Stepping around Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia’s frozen forms as though they were statues, he began to drag Harry towards the door. “Now is not the time, Potter. Keep your mouth shut until I say otherwise– or are you so dunderheaded as to tell the entire world of secret _old crowd_ plans?”

Harry huffed out a breath. He didn’t trust Snape in the least, but he _did_ trust the headmaster, even after everything, and Dumbledore’s letter had been assuring him that everything was okay, and that he was to follow the man. If he had any hope of making it to headquarters in one piece, he supposed the best thing to do for now would be to stay quiet, stay alert, and try to avoid Snape’s wrath. “Yes, Professor.” he said quietly.

“Are all of your things packed?” Snape demanded, growing antsier by the minute. Something was most definitely going on. “I don’t have time for your dawdling any longer.”

Harry nodded. Snape waved his wand, and with a quick nonverbal spell, Harry’s trunk and belongings came zooming out of his room and down the stairs. Another wave of his wand had the trunk shrunken down to the size of a quarter, which he then tucked into the pocket of his robes.

“That is all?”

Rolling his wand in his hand and feeling for the shard of Sirius’ mirror in his pocket, Harry nodded.

Glancing back at the two petrified Muggles, Snape sneered again. “I’m sorry, Potter, but we don’t exactly have time for a heartfelt goodbye.”

“I don’t care.”

The professor looked at him, a strange mix of confusion and anger burning in his eyes. Whatever he wanted to say, though, he seemed to decide it could wait until later. Pointing his wand at Harry’s aunt and uncle, he released them from the curse, and then turned again to Harry.

Snape held out an arm as though he were about to embrace him. Both of them scowled at that. “Hold tightly to me, Potter.” He barked, beckoning him forward.

Alarm bells were ringing in Harry’s mind. “What? No–”

But before Harry could protest any further, Snape had grabbed the back of his shirt, and suddenly the whole world was being turned inside out and upside down. He was spinning and flying, his whole body was whirling in some space between dimensions, and just as quickly as it started, it was over, and he landed sprawling on the floor of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place.

He coughed and wretched, but nothing came up from his empty, twisted stomach except burning bile. His ears were ringing, but he heard the faint sound of someone chuckling, and Snape snarling at them. Something cool and round was shoved against Harry’s lips, and callused hands tipped his head back, pouring a sweet-tasting potion into his mouth.

The tight knots in his stomach began to fade after he’d downed all of the liquid. “Stomach calming draught.” his professor informed him tightly, his face lined with frustration as he _evanesco_ ed the spot on the floor where Harry had vomited.

“What– what _was_ that?” Harry gasped out, trying and failing to get back his feet.

“That doesn’t matter now.” Snape snarled, “What _does_ is that you are, without a doubt, the biggest _dunderhead_ in all of wizarding Britain!”

Still dazed, Harry blinked a few times, clearing the black spots from his vision.  

“You came with me willingly when you were _clearly_ distrusting of me–” the professor began.

“But the headmaster’s note–”

“Could have been forged.” Snape hissed. “You just let me _take_ you, Potter, to an undisclosed location via a method of transportation you were unaware of, and on top of that, you just _downed_ the potion I threw at you without a struggle when you had no idea of its contents. Do you have a single _shred_ of self-preservation?” he demanded, glaring down at Harry with fury in his eyes.

Harry, suddenly feeling incredibly stupid, was lost for words. “I–”

A set of footsteps echoed along the empty hallways of Grimmauld Place as another entered the foyer. “Severus, give the boy a break.” a familiar voice advised gently, “He’s been through enough already.”

A burst of giddiness shot through Harry, giving him the energy he needed to jump to his feet. “Remus!” he exclaimed, rushing towards his beloved professor. The werewolf looked a little battered, as always, but seemed to be doing well otherwise. He hadn’t seen him in ages, not since the Ministry, not since Sirius–

And the full realization of where he was struck him. The smile on his face began to fade as Remus pulled him into a quick hug.

“Good to see you, Harry,” the man said cheerily, unaware of Harry’s sudden shift in mood or otherwise ignoring it. “Severus, Albus sends his thanks. Why don’t the two of you come along into the kitchen? Molly’s made dinner, it’s still warm.”

“Mrs. Weasley? Is Ron here?” he asked hopefully.

Remus shook his head. “Not tonight, I’m afraid. There are some things Professor Dumbledore wanted to discuss with several of us… privately.”

There it was again. Something was going on, and it seemed that _everyone_ was trying to hide it from him, to keep him in the dark as long as possible. Sirius would have told him, he thought bitterly. Sirius would have fought to tell him right away, instead of waiting _weeks_ like Dumbledore had last summer, and ignoring him– and how could they keep doing this after the past year, when hiding these things from Harry had only resulted in disaster?

A stab of pain went through Harry’s chest. Sirius had died because of just that. Because Harry had gone running into danger without knowing what was going on. Aunt Petunia’s words, floating in the back of his mind, came to him then. _She would still be here if it wasn’t for you. And I’m sure your brutish godfather would be, too._

“Harry.” Lupin’s hand came down gently on his shoulder, glancing over at him with concern clear in his eyes. “How about dinner, then? You, too, Severus,” he added, throwing a glare at the grumbling Potions professor.

“Yeah,” Harry nodded, although his mind was elsewhere. “Yeah, sounds good.”

Despite looking like he would rather be anywhere else at that moment, Snape crossed his arms and followed them into the kitchen.

Even with the emptiness that seemed to fill the house without Sirius’ presence, the kitchen was warm and almost cozy. The wooden table had been set for seven, filled with enough food for an army, and the fireplace was going, logs crackling as they burned and filling the air with the comforting smell of a campfire. Mr. Weasley was seated at the table, idly playing with some sort of Muggle item– a slinky, Harry thought?– while Mrs. Weasley was garnishing a chicken dish with herbs. As soon as they stepped into the room, Mr. Weasley glanced up, rising from his chair and welcoming Harry with a grin and a clap on the back. Mrs. Weasley scurried over, throwing her arms around Harry as she held him tightly and somehow looked him up and down at the same time.

“Harry, oh Harry, dear, so good to see you!” she grinned widely at him. “Oh, look how thin you are, you’re looking peaky! Sit down, dear, and help yourself!”

“Molly, dear, we’re still waiting for–” Mr. Weasley tried to interrupt, but was immediately stopped in his tracks by a cold, hard stare from his wife. Turning back to Harry, she practically pushed him into a chair and began piling food onto his plate. Harry briefly wondered again what, exactly, was going on, but before he could give it much thought, his plate was overflowing with chicken and potatoes and there was a bowl beside it filled with more soup that he could ever eat. But he couldn’t deny that after two days without any food of real substance, he was certainly hungry. Concerns forgotten, he picked up his fork and began to eat.

Dinner was quiet. For a bit, Harry was the only one eating, as they all seemed to be waiting for the headmaster. But Mrs. Weasley finally placed a plate in front of Remus, insisting that he sit and eat, and did the same for Snape a few moments later. Remus murmured a grateful thank you, while the potions professor reluctantly accepted, looking as if he was only doing so to pacify Molly. Even Mr. Weasley eventually found himself with a plate stacked high with food.

Remus and Mr. Weasley had begun to chatter amicably about some minor Order business and were deeply engaged in their conversation when the kitchen fireplace suddenly burned a bright, emerald green. Albus Dumbledore stepped out of the flames, offering each  of them a weary smile.

“Albus!” Molly exclaimed, “You look exhausted. Please, sit down and eat something.”

The headmaster raised a hand in polite refusal. “Thank you, Molly, although I’m afraid I may have indulged in one too many sherbet lemons to properly enjoy the lovely dinner you’ve made. I will, however, join you for some conversation, if that is alright…” The headmaster trailed off. Without even looking at Harry, he came to sit beside him, the expression on his face rather pained as he lowered himself into the chair.

It was only after he seated himself and offered greetings to everyone at the table that he turned to Harry with his smile and tired but twinkling eyes. Harry was surprised at the kindness of the greeting. The last time he had seen Dumbledore, he had wrecked the man’s office in a fit of anger.  Shame made his cheeks burn at the memory. “My boy,” he said, folding his hands and placing them neatly on the table. Across from him, Snape let out a low growl. “So good to see you. Your journey here went well, I presume?”

It was only then that Harry noticed that the presence of something withered and black in the place where Dumbledore’s left hand should have been. The skin was pulled taut and charred, almost as though the man had died, and his body was beginning to decay… Harry’s stomach flipped. The fingers were curled permanently into a claw-like shape and shriveled, making his hand look as though it belong to some sort of… _thing_. Suddenly, he didn’t feel so hungry anymore.

“Sir…” he asked cautiously, careful not to stare, “What happened?”

Dumbledore glanced down at his hand, suddenly looking surprised, almost as though he had forgotten it was there. He lowered it to his lap. Harry briefly wondered if it would stain his robes black.

“Albus,” Snape hissed, looking furious enough to spit fire. Harry had been on the receiving end of that anger enough time to feel that the headmaster should keep quiet.

“Severus.” Dumbledore responded evenly, meeting his gaze calmly before turning back to Harry. “That, my boy, is a story for another time. But I assure you, I am in no immediate danger, and I will be recovering shortly thanks to Professor Snape.” his lips twitched into a soft smile that made the Potions Master’s scowl deepen.

Looking between the two of them, the frustration and confusion he’d tried hard to ignore began to bubble over. Why the hell wasn’t anyone telling him anything? He had a right to know if Dumbledore was hurt, what had happened, what was going on… he was almost sixteen and a vital part of the Order. He wasn’t a child anymore. He wouldn’t stand for being kept in the dark!

“Sir,” he repeated, a little louder this time. “What’s going on? What happened?”

Remus and the Weasleys exchanged wary glances. Dumbledore hesitated for a moment.

“I’m afraid, my boy, that is something you are going to have to tell _us._ ” he explained, looking at him with a sort of sad look in his eyes that made Harry want to break something.

“What do you mean?” Harry demanded, voice rising in anger. He could feel the magic beginning to thrum in his veins. “I don’t know anything, I haven’t heard anything _all summer_ , not since Sirius died, no one has told me–”

Dumbledore placed his normal hand on Harry’s shoulder, cutting him off. Instinctively, Harry flinched away from the touch and shot back in his chair, fighting the urge to pull out his wand.  He didn’t miss the sadness in the headmaster’s eyes, or Mrs. Weasley’s pitying murmur.

“Something of importance occured at Number Four, Privet Drive several days ago, Harry. I thought you were aware.” Dumbledore said quietly.

“Of course he wasn’t _aware_ , Albus–” Snape suddenly snarled.

“Severus!” Mrs. Weasley chided, throwing him a nasty glare before looking at Harry with soft, sad eyes.

“Just tell me what’s going on!” Harry shouted. He’d had enough of the secrets, the pity, the lies. He couldn’t take it anymore.

“Harry…” Dumbledore began, choosing his words carefully. “As of several days ago, your mother’s blood wards are broken. I am afraid that it is no longer safe for you to return to Privet Drive.”


	3. Fault

A great wave of emotion suddenly crashed over Harry at the Headmaster’s words. Confusion, shock, anger, joy, and relief all flooded his body, and he could feel his magic reacting to them, simmering just underneath his skin. His thoughts were flying in a thousand different directions. A dozen questions lingered on the tip of his tongue– why hadn’t Dumbledore told him about the wards sooner and left him without protection? Did all of this have anything to do with his argument with Aunt Petunia or his accidental magic? Did this mean that he would not have to return to the Dursleys’ next summer? And why had Professor Snape been the one to fetch him if he had been in such great danger?

Dizzy with disbelief, however, it was none of these things that he finally said after a few moments of silence. Instead, he stupidly asked, “Is that why I never got a letter? From the Ministry?”

The headmaster chuckled. “A letter, Harry? Why would a letter have been necessitated?”

Harry felt his cheeks begin to go red. Shite. So the headmaster hadn’t stepped in to cover for him after all. Somehow, his outburst had escaped the view of both the Ministry and Hogwarts. “Er, I sort of accidentally blew up Aunt Petunia’s kitchen. Just the windows,” he added quickly, as he could see Mrs. Weasley’s face losing color across from him. He could have sworn Professor Snape snorted, but the man quickly began coughing softly into his elbow instead.

“Ah. Accidental magic.” Dumbledore murmured. The old man nodded once to himself before his wise blue eyes once again settled on Harry. “And this happened when?”

“The same day you sent your note.” Harry said. “Could my magic have been what caused the wards to break, sir?”

“Perhaps.” The Headmaster replied. He stroked his beard idly with his blackened hand; the normalcy of the action combined with the look of the  eerie, rotten flesh made Harry feel nauseous. “Although it would be quite unusual, as none of your experiences with accidental magic as a child caused any sort of damage. In order to counteract the blood magic, the spell in question would have had to be cast with nefarious intent, and done by someone within your immediate relations. As none of your remaining relatives have shown traces of magic, I am inclined to think that this is not the case.” Dumbledore continued on for a few moments, seemingly thinking out loud; all the while, Harry’s stomach began to churn, and he was beginning to regret the large meal he’d just wolfed down.

“...Nonetheless. I digress.” The headmaster finally paused. He was a man of many words, but not usually one for rambling. Harry wondered if the pain from his hand was wearing at him. “Now, your magic. I trust that the incident was not nebulous in origin?”

Knots seemed to form in Harry’s stomach as he shook his head. A horrible thought had begun to circle in his mind, a suspicion that was only growing the more Dumbledore spoke. The Dursleys may not have had any magic of their own, but Harry had plenty, and in that moment, all he’d felt was his burning anger towards Aunt Petunia, and a sharp resentment at everything that he’d been forced to endure, and in that moment, he’d wanted _out_. He could have shut his mouth and done what she asked, but instead, he’d provoked her and caused all this.

“Harry?” Dumbledore pressed, blue eyes twinkling with worry.

“No, sir. My aunt…” he said slowly, choosing his words carefully. “We had a bit of a row.”

“A bit.” Remus repeated, looking at Harry strangely. “You rowed _a bit_ and blew out the kitchen windows.”

Harry suddenly began to feel uncomfortable. “Maybe I said some things I shouldn’t have, all right? But she– she–” he couldn’t help it; his voice was shaking as the intensity of the memory flooded his mind. The shrillness of her voice. His burning fury. Storming out, and the feeling of absolute vulnerability that prickled at the back of his neck as soon as he’d left the property of Number Four, Privet Drive. The timing was too close to be coincidental. It had to have been Harry’s spell that broke the wards.

But if his feelings and a bout of accidental magic had been all it took to shatter them, wouldn’t it would have happened years ago? He’d blown up Aunt Marge in third year, and he’d been just as angry then as several days prior if not more so. But his magic was much stronger after two more years of training at Hogwarts.

He felt as though he might be sick.

He didn’t realise that he’d closed his hands into fists until Mrs. Weasley reached across and began to gently pry his fingers open.

“No one is blaming you, Harry,” she said softly, massaging away the tension in his knuckles. “Professor Dumbledore just wants to know what happened.”

“She wanted me to do the cleaning.” He stated simply, pulling his hands into his lap. His throat bobbed as he struggled to keep his emotions under control. “She said a few things. She was upset. I got angry. We rowed.”

Snape groaned, looking as though he simultaneously wanted to strangle Harry and put his head in his hands. “For once in your miserable life, Potter, can’t you just swallow your pride and follow directions without arguing about them?” he snapped.

“I’m fairly certain I did follow directions this time, _Professor_ ,” Harry sniped back at him, unable to keep the bitterness from leaking into his voice, “As my aunt very clearly told me to _get out._ And she didn’t seem like she wanted to see me again any time soon.”  

An awkward silence filled the room.

“I see.” Dumbledore finally said. Lines spread across his face as his expression deepend into a frown. Surely the man was beginning to realize exactly what had occurred to Harry several moments earlier. “I will need to examine your memory to determine what, exactly, caused the damage, but it seems that we have an answer as to _how_ the wards were broken. Your mother’s protection was built to withstand any outside forces and inner turmoil as long as Petunia kept you under her protection and you were able to call Privet Drive your home. Something that happened in your volatile exchange seems to have led both of you to… reject those ideas.”

Harry remembered how desperately he’d wanted out, wanted to be anywhere _but_ there in that moment, and nodded once. “Makes sense.” he said quietly.

For a moment, there was silence. Remus was staring at Harry with wide, pitying eyes, while Mrs. Weasley wore a resigned expression, her lips pursed into a thin line. Dumbledore was still gazing at him as though he were some sort of rare specimen to be observed, and Harry felt miniscule under his piercing gaze, no bigger than a beetle. There was a strange heaviness in his chest, and a thick frustration had begun to seep into his veins like a slow poison– guilt and anger, anger at himself.

Across the table, Snape growled.

“Do you mean to say, Potter,” he said in a dangerously low voice, “That the blood wards your mother _died_ to create were broken because you just couldn’t follow the rules for once and get along with your aunt?”

“My mother–” Harry choked out, his mind flying back to what, exactly, Aunt Petunia had had to say about _his mother_ . Rage began to bubble in the pit of his stomach again. “She insulted her. And Sirius. She insulted _my mum_.”

Rage flashed in Snape’s eyes. “How noble, defending your mother’s reputation.” he hissed through clenched teeth. “Yet somehow you don’t seem to have enough respect for her to honor a sacrifice that she made in _your name_ , you ungrateful brat!”

A hand came gently onto Harry’s shoulder. “Severus.” The headmaster chided. Harry felt his hands begin to shake. “My boy–”

“Get off!” Harry shouted, swatting the professor’s hand away. That awful, horrible, greasy _git!_ How dare he talk about his mother, and how dare he call Harry ungrateful, as though he didn’t already know that he’d earned every cruel word, every punishment, every misfortune. He couldn’t hear anything anymore except the furious pounding of his heart and Aunt Petunia’s voice in his mind, accusing him, blaming him, telling him the awful truth– “You– you bloody bastard, you have _no idea_! I think about her every day– my mum– _all of them-_ ” he raised his voice to a bellow. “ _Don’t you think I already know it’s all my fault?”_

The room fell into a shocked silence.

“A bit melodramatic, don’t you think, Potter?” an all-too-familiar voice drawled from behind.

Oh, Merlin, no. There was no way in hell _he_ would be here. Harry’s head whipped around, and found that his senses weren’t lying to him– because there, leaning against the doorway as though he thought he owned the place, was Draco Malfoy.

Harry whipped his wand out of his pocket, pointing it directly at the blond. “Malfoy!” he shouted, leaping to his feet to defend himself. After five years at Hogwarts, Harry had learned that nothing good would ever come from his presence. He expected the others to do the same, but a quick glance showed that no one else looked remotely surprised.

“Ah, Mr. Malfoy. Timely as ever.” Dumbledore said tightly, all but ignoring Harry’s outburst.  “Please, do sit down.”

Malfoy delicately folded his arms over his chest. “Oh, please don’t stop on account of me. I’d hate to interrupt such a riveting monologue.”

Harry’s gaze darted to the headmaster, who did not at all seemed alarmed by the blond’s unannounced presence, and then back to Malfoy again. Draco Malfoy– who was as Slytherin as they came, whose parents were some of Voldemort’s most avid followers,  who had practically eaten out of Umbridge’s hand last year– was somehow standing in the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix, smirking at him as though he knew something Harry didn’t. And Dumbledore was sitting there, doing _nothing_.

Saying nothing.

Keeping his wand pointed at Draco, he slowly slid his gaze to Dumbledore. He clenched his teeth, trying to leash his anger. “Is there anything else you haven’t been telling me, _Professor?_ ” he grit out.

The man suddenly looked incredibly weary. That usual twinkle in his eyes had begun to dim, and he did not look at Harry, nor offer a response.

To Harry’s immense frustration, however, Malfoy did. “You really don’t know, Potter? Shame. Keeping the Chosen One in the dark.” he shook his head pityingly. “You know, my father always told me everything.”

It took all of Harry’s restraint to keep himself from punching the Slytherin in the face. “Shut the hell up, Malfoy. Your father’s a piece of shit.” he snarled.

The smirk began to slip from the other boy’s face. “You don’t know anything, Potter.”

“I know that you’ve always wanted to stab me in the back at the first chance you got!” Harry said hotly, remembering the first-year duel, the incident with the “Dementor”, and how he’d almost gotten Buckbeak killed. Malfoy straightened, crossing his arms a little tighter around himself as he stared at Harry with his steel eyes.

Dumbledore cleared his throat, and both boys looked over, thereby halting the argument. “I think,” he said tiredly, “That it is time for the adults to have a chat.”

Harry stood his ground. “I’m not going anywhere until someone explains!”

He had been hoping that someone would take his side and tell Dumbledore that he had the right to know, like Sirius had done last year. If Sirius were still here, he would have done it again, Harry was sure… Sirius was always looking out for him…

But Sirius was not here anymore. He was trapped behind the Veil, gone forever, and the only response Harry received was the popping of the logs as they burned in the old stone fireplace.

“Well?” Harry said loudly. He looked from the Weasleys to Remus to Dumbledore, hoping someone would just tell him, just _once_ , but all of them didn’t quite catch his eyes.

Finally, Dumbledore sighed.

“The story is not mine to tell, my boy. But you must understand that Draco is staying here under _my_ full trust and protection.”

“But–”

The professor closed his eyes and put a hand up to stop him before he could continue. “Harry, I can assure you that you are completely safe here, even in the midst of present company. That is all I can tell you at the moment. The rest will have to wait until tomorrow.”

And at those words, Harry saw red. After last summer, after the incident at the Ministry, after the wards breaking, Dumbledore _still_ saw fit to hide things from Harry. How could he? His hands shook. He could feel himself on the edge of another outburst. “You– you–” he spluttered.

But his voice died in his throat. He was tired of this; he didn’t want to do this anymore. He was done with the secrets– if the professor wanted to keep them, he could have them, Harry thought indignantly. Taking a sharp breath, he bottled his anger before it could blow out another window and forced a neutral expression onto his face.  “Fine. I suppose I’ll leave you to your talking, then. Good-night.”

He turned on his heel and stomped out of the room, passing Malfoy without a spared glance, ignoring the dumbfounded expressions of the Weasleys and Snape’s vicious grumbling, not stopping until he had reached the room he had claimed as his own last summer and slammed the door behind him.

Once the door had been warded with the strongest silencing and protection charms he knew– he wouldn’t be taking any chances, not with the wards broken and Malfoy so close– he turned and let himself fall onto the bed, wallowing in his anger and frustration. This wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair. He should get to be a full member of the Order, he should get to know the plans– after all, it was his job to take down Voldemort, not Snape’s, not Dumbledore’s, and certainly not Malfoy’s. He shoved his fists under the pillow and squeezed his eyes shut, the same thoughts circling his mind until sleep began to overtake him...

_At first there was nothing but darkness in his dreams; a comforting, all-encompassing blackness, not unlike the dimness of his cupboard. His whole world was peace and solitude and silence, and he embraced it, letting himself fall into it..._

_But then the world burst into color with a flash of green light and his mother’s familiar scream, and suddenly there was_ everything. _The basilisk lunging towards him, aiming for the kill, and Tom Riddle’s awful smirk. The remnants of the horrible diary. An explosion of red and green as his and Voldemort’s spells collided, and the spirits of his parents emerged from the Dark Lord’s wand. Cedric’s body. The door in the Department of Mysteries. Sirius falling through the veil. And Harry’s own primal rage, enough to kill as he chased after Bellatrix Lestrange. Harry was there in the Ministry once again, heart pounding, lungs burning, as he set his sights on his godfather’s killer. He pointed his wand– no longer made of holly but instead carved from yew– and in a voice that sounded strangely unlike his own he bellowed, “Crucio!”_

_A high pitched scream tore through Harry’s mind as Bellatrix crumpled to the floor. The scene around him quickly warped, melting from the marble corridors of the Ministry of Magic into a small, dark cell. The Lestrange woman was writhing under his curse, begging for mercy that she would not receive. None of them would._

_For the Dark Lord was furious. He would have what he wanted, even if it took torturing every one of his Death Eaters into insanity to get it._

_“My Lord, please, please…” Bellatrix was begging, scrambling onto her hands and knees as she gasped for breath. “I am your most loyal servant– I kept my faith when others would not, I waited for you through all those years– I killed for you– lied for you–” she crawled towards him, reaching out to touch the toes of his boots._

_Those words meant nothing now, he thought, looking at her with disgust as she dug her nails into the leather of his boots. He sent Bella sprawling onto the ground with a swift kick and rolled his wand between his fingers. “How can I know you are true to me when the one who betrayed us once spoke those very same words?”_

_“I will do anything for you,” she gasped out, “Anything, anything–”_

_Tired of her delirious moaning, Voldemort flicked his wand and she fell to the ground again, shrieking out in pain. As he watched her weak body convulse, a deep-seated rage began to fill him. Something had been taken from him. Stolen. And he was going to get it back–_

Harry woke with white-hot pain blazing in his scar, his body uncontrollably shaking, and his sheets soaked with cold sweat. Bellatrix’s screams still rang in his ears. Clutching his throbbing forehead, he could barely breathe.

He did not sleep another wink for the rest of the night.


End file.
